


this could work

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Molly, Asexuality, Attempted Non Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Bullying, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later that night, long after she’d dried her tears and cleaned up the mascara which had smudged all the way down her cheeks, Molly found her answer. She also learned the definition of “asexual.” </p>
<p>(Ace!Molly fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	this could work

**Author's Note:**

> Please know that I am bisexual, not asexual, so I apologize profusely if I got anything wrong and end up offending someone. Please let me know of any inaccuracies. Also, Molly is specifically a hetero-romantic, sex repulsed asexual, and I certainly don't mean for her to be a representation of all asexuals. 
> 
> Dedicated to incomprehensiblemetaphor on tumblr. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: bullying (verbal, not physical), and non graphic attempted rape.

Molly Hooper, fourteen years old and more than a little self conscious, did not like boys. Well, she liked them well enough in a “Let’s go to the observatory and talk about science!” sort of way, but that, according to Jennifer, wasn’t the way you were _supposed_ to like boys. Apparently she was doing it wrong. According to Jennifer, you were supposed to want to kiss boys, and even, Jennifer whispered this very softly into Molly’s ear, have _sex_ with them. Molly had scrunched up her nose in distaste at this thought. Neither she nor Jennifer had any practical knowledge of sex, but, quite honestly, the act in theory sounded uncomfortable at best and painful at worst. 

It wasn’t like Molly hadn’t had crushes before. In fact, her other best friend, Annabel, always teased her about how she had way too many crushes. There had been Aiden before she even really knew what a crush was who had told her he liked her kitten backpack and gave her a dandelion, followed by Rhys when she was ten who told Clive to stop pulling on her ponytail and then punched him in the face when he called her a crybaby. Next was Rupert – she was eleven and he was _twelve_ – who was a little rude, but who was very good at maths and helped her when she couldn’t understand her schoolwork. After Rupert came Jeremy who held her hand gently all throughout the class fieldtrip to the British Museum but didn’t smile very much. The most recent object of her affections, though, was Giles who could tell you _anything_ about the periodic table of elements and who could hack into just about any computer. 

Apparently for Jennifer that wasn’t enough. 

\---

Molly Hooper, seventeen years old and wishing that everything would just _stop_ , was crying, holed up in a stall in the girl’s lavatory. A fleeting feeling of guilt clenched her heart as she realized she had already missed ten minutes of history class – it was the first time she’d _ever_ missed a class – before she remembered that Annabel would be there. The mere thought of Annabel brought on a whole new cascade of tears, causing Molly to bury her face in her arm in order to muffle the sound of her loud, wet sobbing. 

Molly tried to console herself, trying to find some way to rationalize her best friend’s behavior. However, she came up with no good or even half decent excuse for Annabel’s betrayal. She tried not to completely fall apart as she remembered the moment Giles had broken up with her, saying that he couldn’t date a lesbian. When she’d asked him, still in shock, why he thought she was a lesbian, he’d replied simply that Annabel had told him so, and when Molly tried to tell him that Annabel was wrong, he’d asked her why she wouldn’t let him kiss her. Molly had paused for a moment, just staring at him, mouth hanging open as she tried to find an answer. None came to her. 

Later that night, long after she’d dried her tears and cleaned up the mascara which had smudged all the way down her cheeks, Molly found her answer. She also learned the definition of “asexual.” 

\---

Molly Hooper, twenty six years old and a forensic pathology resident at Bart’s, was more than a little drunk the night she almost lost her virginity. That is – the night it was almost taken from her by violent force. The high pitched titter of her own hiccup-y laughter ran in her ears as she stumbled over her own feet, bumping into another man at the bar. 

“Careful there,” he said, smiling in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant as he placed his hands on her shoulders in order to steady her. 

“Oh, sorry!” Molly apologized quickly, an embarrassed blush spreading across her cheeks.

She started giggling again as she heard the slight slur that laced her words. She wriggled her shoulder a bit, trying to back away from the man, the physical contact making her skin prickle uncomfortably. She frowned slightly as the stranger’s fingers tightened around her shoulder instead of loosening like they were supposed to. 

“A pretty young lady like you has nothing to be sorry about,” the man replied, still making no move to release her. 

“Um, thank you,” Molly slurred, tripping over her tongue along with her feet. “Thanks. I should – I should probably stop.” 

“Do you live in the area?” the stranger asked, not sounding as concerned as he probably should have. “I’ll walk you home.” 

“Oh, I think I’m okay,” Molly said, shaking her head slightly, trying to clear the fog coating her consciousness and trying to remind herself why letting this man so close was a bad thing. “Really. I’m fine.” 

She stumbled over a barstool. 

“Ooookay,” the man announced, helping Molly back onto her feet and wrapping an arm uncomfortably around her waist, supporting most of her weight, as her trembling legs clearly weren’t going to be able to do the job on their own. “You know, I think you’ve had a little too much to drink to make important decisions like that.” 

If Molly was a little more sober, she probably would have realized the dichotomy in the man’s statement. As it was, the room was already spinning around her and she could hardly tell up from down, much less walk in a straight line or fight off an overly interested pursuer. 

That night almost ended as badly as it was shaping out to. Thankfully, a young man decided to intervene. 

“Would you like to add sexual assault to the list of charges against you?” a posh, haughty accent broke in, careful not to touch Molly as he began to pry the other man’s arm off of her waist. “It certainly won’t help your character witness.”

Well, it wasn’t until later that Molly learned that the newcomer’s accent was “posh” and “haughty,” as she’d been far too tipsy to make out such details at the time. She was, however, able to determine that the man was tall – very tall – and quite pale with a mop of dark hair which was (probably) curly. Whether he was a friend or foe she had also yet to determine, but he hadn’t made any move to initiate physical contact, so at the present moment he was better than the alternative. 

“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about, mate – ” the man who’d cornered her snapped, turning his attention to the tall one and thankfully away from Molly, enough so that she could finish wriggling her way out of his grasp. 

“Oh, please don’t start with this rubbish,” the tall man snorted, taking a step closer to Molly’s assailant, using his height to loom ominously over him. “The dilation of your pupils and the amount of physical contact with this woman you keep forcibly initiating along with your offer to walk her home make your intensions abundantly clear – just as clear her obvious disinterest, what with the way she keeps telling you off both verbally and physically. As for the charges already against you, you should know them well enough. The Yard has more than enough evidence to implicate you in last week’s art robbery at the Tate Modern.”

Molly decided that she rather liked this fellow, even if she could hardly make out half of what he was saying, considering the speed he was talking at. He was clearly brilliant, though, and Molly had always had a bit of a weakness for brilliant men. 

“Are you here to arrest me, then?” the arse who had harassed Molly retorted, backing away slightly, frowning as he realized all that was behind him was the bar. 

“No, but he is,” posh man replied, gesturing over his shoulder at an older silver haired man with a long dark coat and a police badge. 

Molly’s assailant was starting to look a little panicked now and quickly reached his hand around his back to reach for something tucked into the waistband of his jeans. However, his dark expression turned to one of surprise as he apparently came up with nothing. 

“I’ve already relieved you of your firearm,” posh man said simply, almost sounding a little bored. 

Molly blinked. Her mouth was probably hanging wide open now, and she slumped backwards slightly, the bar behind her helping support some of her weight, which her legs could no longer sufficiently hold up. 

“Sherlock,” the silver haired police officer greeted, coming to a stop next to posh man – Sherlock, Molly supposed. “Are you sure this is him? He doesn’t look like much.”

“I’m positive,” the newly dubbed Sherlock replied, a hint of exasperation and affront in his tone. “As if the dark blue ink stains on his wrists weren’t enough to identify him.”

“Well, for most of us they aren’t,” the policeman answered, sounding like an annoyed parent, before turning to the thief in question. “You better come with me quietly, because I’ve had to deal with this git all day which has not put me in a particularly good mood.”

The robber opened his mouth as if to spit back some sort of nasty comment, but apparently thought better of it when the policeman glared at him, brandishing his handcuffs in a way that bordered on menacing. 

“Oh, and before you go, is Donovan here?” Sherlock asked, making the silver haired man pause, his brow wrinkled slightly in confusion. 

“If you’re just going to have a go at her again – ” the officer warned, shooting Sherlock an unimpressed look. 

“I won’t have a go at her if she does nothing to warrant it,” Sherlock snorted, his mouth pulling itself into an even deeper frown. “But that’s irrelevant. The woman over there,” he gestured to Molly with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, “needs transport back to her apartment.”

“We’re not a taxi service – ” the policeman retorted, narrowing his eyes. 

“She’s quite inebriated and Davies already attempted to molest her,” the taller man shot back, glancing over at Molly, but only for a split second. “Does that warrant a ‘taxi ride’?” 

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock – why didn’t you – shit, I’m sorry, Miss – ” the silver haired man said, turning to Molly, making a move as if to put a comforting hand on her arm before realizing better. 

“Uh, no, I – it’s fine. Really, I’m just a little – ” Molly babbled, attempting to push herself up off of the bar, but as soon as she was without its support the room began to spin around her and her knees almost gave out again. She managed to grab hold of a barstool before completely collapsing, though, saving herself from at least a little bit of indignity. 

“I’ll go get Donovan,” the policeman conceded, shooting Molly a sympathetic look – or what she assumed was a sympathetic look, as she wasn’t in much of a state to assess the subtleties of, well, _anything_ at the moment – before cuffing Davies (her assailant and apparent art thief) and dragging him in the direction of the building’s exit, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary. 

The room spun around Molly again and she decided that it might be better to sit down.

\---

Molly Hooper, thirty one years old and hopelessly in love, was quite sure that Sherlock bloody Holmes was going to be the death of her. She’d fallen in and out of love before, just as everybody had, really, but she’d always been able to distance herself with the secure knowledge that they wanted sex, and she really, really didn’t. Oh, she’d tried making out with a boyfriend before back at university, but she’d almost had to run out of the room as the urge to retch violently came over her. 

Sherlock, though… he was different. Initially she’d just been grateful to him for saving her from the disgusting man who had tried to assault her five years ago, but that feeling had remarkably quickly turned into a crush and then plummeted into infatuation. Molly did, after all, have quite a weakness for brilliance, and Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not brilliant. Watching him at work was quite an experience, and even just observing him think was amazing. Molly swore that she could almost see the cogs in his mind whirring and rotating. The thought of his melodious voice whispering deductions to her made Molly’s heart ache, the intimacy of the fantasy almost overwhelming her. 

Sometimes she thought she’d be able to do it for him. It being sex. But those moments were fleeting and far apart, because in her heart of hearts Molly knew that she’d never be able to stomach it – that a relationship like that would just eat away at her until she couldn’t take it anymore. 

That didn’t mean she was just going to give up, though. She always jumped to help Sherlock with whatever he should need, and although many of her friends and coworkers criticized her for being a pushover, the hope that maybe she’d be able to make him fall in love with her so long as she worked hard enough for it fueled her efforts. 

The first time she wore lipstick for him, she almost felt like she was betraying part of herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t like makeup – because she did, sometimes – but through it, it felt like she was acknowledging that Sherlock was a sexual creature, that whatever emotional attraction he felt for her wasn’t enough. When he said that the lipstick was a “big improvement” it almost felt like she’d been stabbed.

And then, of course, Jim had happened. Jim from IT who wasn’t actually Jim from IT, but who was instead criminal mastermind James Moriarty. She’d honestly never intended the relationship to be a way of making Sherlock jealous. Jim had been the one to initiate the relationship by asking her out for coffee. Molly had reluctantly agreed, and had spent the next two days prior to the coffee date panicking over whether she should tell Jim about her sexuality. 

She did. She did, and to her surprise, Jim just smiled and said, “I know.”

_This could work,_ Molly had thought. _This is a man who I could learn to love._

But then everything came crashing down, and, like always, Sherlock was right in the thick of it. The night after Molly found out, she cried in a way she hadn’t since she was seventeen. 

She healed, of course. Not completely, but enough. Enough to function, and enough fall back in love with Sherlock Holmes as if nothing had ever changed. Sometimes she still hates him for it, but she pulled herself back up, just like she had when she was seventeen and she carried on like she always had, and she became as close to normal as she ever was. 

Enter Irene Adler. Once again, Molly Hooper’s whole world came crashing down. Irene Alder practically oozed sex and sensuality, dripping it over whatever she touched – including Sherlock Holmes. Other than comments about her lipstick and hair, Molly had never had any other real indications that Sherlock was a sexual being. Irene Adler turned that notion completely and utterly on its head. Molly had never seen Sherlock so obsessed with a person before – not even John Watson or James Moriarty. 

At first, she tried to convince herself that it was just Irene’s brilliance. After all, Molly knew better than anyone else how intoxicating intelligence could be. It wasn’t just that, though. The fact that Irene was as close to an embodiment of sex as Molly had ever seen only served to highlight the fact that she had no chance of ever capturing Sherlock’s affections. The fact that Sherlock was able to identify Irene’s cold, dead body by “not her face” didn’t help anything. 

The moment Molly saw the flicker of deep emotional pain that flashed through Sherlock’s eyes upon seeing Irene’s lifeless body, she fully resigned herself to the fact that whatever she felt for the brilliant man would be forever unreciprocated. 

\---

Molly wasn’t sure when the fall began – Sherlock’s Fall. It was before the trial of Richard Brook, she knew that much. She only wished she’d been there to help him from falling back over the edge. 

\---

“You look sad when you think he can’t see you,” Molly said, the words spilling past her lips in a cluttered rush, doing her best not to tremble as Sherlock’s pale eyes bored into her own. “Are you okay? Don’t say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

The rawness she felt after that admission threatened to consume her and a wave of dizziness swept over her. 

“ _You_ can see me,” Sherlock said in a way that almost made Molly’s heart stop. 

“I don’t count,” she replied, feeling more than she’d ever like to admit that it was the most truthful thing she’d ever said. 

\---

“But what could I need from you?”

_Nothing,_ Molly thought. _Absolutely nothing._

\---

“You’re wrong you know.”

Molly spun around, her heart in her throat as she whirled around to find Sherlock standing behind her, looking more terrified than she’d ever seen him. Maybe a little bit lost, too. He didn’t look at her, but he kept on talking. 

“You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.”

Her heart stopped for a moment, and for a second she wanted to scream at him, wanted to accuse him of lying, to slap him. She let him continue. 

“But you were right,” he said, finally turning to meet her eyes. “I’m not okay.”

And in that moment, Molly knew what she needed to do.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she replied, her voice unwavering despite the violent pounding of her heart in her chest. 

“Molly…” the way her name slid off of his tongue, his tone so painfully vulnerable only served to steel her resolve. “I think I’m going to die.”

Again, her heart skipped a beat. She hoped it didn’t show on her face. 

“What do you need?” 

“If I wasn’t everything you think I am,” he started, walking towards her.

_Impossible,_ she thought. 

“Everything that _I_ think I am…” he continued, his eyes never once leaving hers, “Would you still want to help me?”

_I’d do anything for you._

“What do you need?” Molly repeated calmly. 

“You,” he replied simply. 

Molly had never heard a more terrifying word in her life.

\---

Molly nearly jumped in shock as she turned on the lights in her small apartment to find Sherlock sprawled on her worn, beige couch, soundly asleep. She just stood there for a moment taking in the scene before going to her bedroom, reemerging with an old quilt her aunt had made for her years ago. She draped it across Sherlock’s exhausted form. He didn’t so much as twitch. 

_This,_ Molly thought, wrapping her arms around herself and closing her eyes, _This could work._


End file.
